


silverleaf and sunstone

by imagymnasia



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28559100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagymnasia/pseuds/imagymnasia
Summary: "So, what is it you desire the Stag’s power for? Riches? Glory beyond measure? True love?”“I bet it’s something selfless. Save your village from disaster? Dying family member, maybe?"“My– my mother, actually.”In which Byleth Eisner goes hunting for a magical stag and finds something else entirely.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 28





	silverleaf and sunstone

**Author's Note:**

> For Peshecito.  
>  _Happy (late) holidays, and have a very Claudeleth New Year!_

He had expected the forest to be quiet, but the stillness beneath the silverleaf trees was unsettling. Byleth was not unfamiliar with forests or with hunting; his father had been taking him on long trips into the wilderness since he was old enough to hold a bow. But he had never been in this _particular_ forest, on this particular mountaintop; he’d never been among the silverleaf trees, with their gleaming argent foliage and paper-thin bark, or tread upon the whispering grass and fallen leaves that sang like ghosts beneath his feet. 

Despite his experience, Byleth was put off by the place. All that he knew about the woods and hunting, about stealth and tracking and archery, felt small and ineffectual in the face of the forest’s power. The forest Heliodor was a place of unfathomable magic and mystery.

Where else would a wish-granting creature reside? That was what had brought him here, and everyone else: the legend of Heliodor, and the Golden Stag.

His father had told him the tale, when he was very young: how, hundreds of years ago, there had been a prince in a far-off land. Favored by his lord father and possessing great ambition, this prince had designs on the throne despite being the youngest son. This angered his brother's, who, jealous of his attention and coveting the power of the kingdom for themselves, conspired against him. Together, they cursed him, turning him into a deer with golden pelt and horns of pearl, and cast him into the mountains to be hunted.

Yet the spirit of the mountain had pity on the transformed prince and hid him from the hunting parties that sought his valuable hide. In return, the prince remained in the forest and lived by the spirit’s side and learned the ways of the forest. The prince, still a trickster at heart even in his new form, decided to play a trick on his brothers. He made it known that whoever could catch him would be granted a single wish. Should they succeed, whatever they desired would be theirs.

The temptation was too much for his power-hungry siblings. They set off immediately with a hunting party and passed beneath the boughs of the Heliodor together. Yet their distrust of each other proved to be their downfall, and one by one the princes turned on each other, until none remained.

Now, hundreds of years later, every generation or so the Stag made an appearance once again, daring the bravest and most cunning hunters to chase him and claim their prize.

Byleth had no idea how much of that story was true, but he believed it nonetheless. He knew people who had encountered the Stag: wisewoman Rhea from the village beyond the hills had seen it, and her brother Seteth; his own father, too, who claimed the deer had saved him from being lost in the woods when he was just a boy. Byleth was sure the Stag existed, and if the Stag was real then the magic must be, too.

It _had_ to be. 

So, when the call came for the Hunt to begin, Byleth found himself making the days-long journey to the edge of the forest. It had become tradition to send out a hunting party all at once, just like the tale, only this time with the king’s blessing. Fifty of the finest knights, hunters, and adventure-seekers had set out this morning in search of their fortunes, and Byleth was one of them.

It was evening, now. 

The party had set up camp in a clearing only a day’s march into the forest. Byleth stared into the campfire as he ate, listening to the other hunting parties plan tomorrow’s hunt over their late-night meals. There were quite a few teams here—some solo, some as many as ten together—and they all seemed to take a different approach toward the hunt for the Stag.

Yet they all had one thing in common: they were all strangers to Byleth. 

The village he was from was small and out of the way; not much to do there but live off the land and enjoy the peace and quiet. There were occasionally wild animals to be driven off, but they never saw much in the way of travelers. Because the town was effectively invaluable, they were never bothered by thieves and the like, either. The most traveling Byleth had ever done was for supplies—medicine, ore, things they could not make themselves but could trade for in the next town over.

But the hunters here were from all across the land: the cruel northern plains, full of clan skirmishes over resources, whose inhabitants were just as likely to die by the sword as they were of starvation; the balmy south, beyond the rivers, where the land flourished and its peoples pursued art and political renown instead of scavenging for food.

Byleth could pinpoint most of their origins by appearance alone: clothing, accents, mannerisms. Not that he was good at people; conversation and relationships were _not_ his forte. But hunting—using his senses to identify and track down his prey— _that_ he was good at; and while he had never hunted a human being and (hopefully would never have to) the skills translated well when it came to observing his would-be comrades. 

Not that any of them were on the same side. Come tomorrow, it would be every person for themselves.

There was one crew, however, that gave him pause. They were a mismatched lot, two men and two women, all strikingly different from each other and yet somehow the same. He had taken to calling them the Wolves, for they moved like a pack and had a certain predatory air about them. Unlike that blue-haired boy from Faerghus (whose name he could not remember and who had been exceedingly prickly at their first meeting but seemed generally harmless), these four gave off a truly dangerous aura. On the surface, they seemed friendly enough—they were certainly loud and chatty—but Byleth could tell that no one much liked or trusted them, and the others gave the Wolves a wide berth.

Byleth glanced at them over the top of his bowl and sipped his stew. He was pretty sure the purple-haired one was in charge; he did most of the talking. Yuri, Byleth thought his name was. But he couldn’t figure out the two women: the redhead seemed apathetic at best, which the energetic blonde more than made up for, but they didn’t look much like hunters. The big man could probably break them all in half with his bare hands, though, no matter what his goofy grin said.

Just then, the purple-haired man looked up and, upon catching Byleth’s eye, grinned such a charming grin that Byleth felt himself frozen on the spot. The man nudged his companions and set his meal aside, then sauntered over, taking a seat on the log next to Byleth and stretching his legs out toward the fire.

“So,” drawled the man, leaning towards Byleth as if to share a secret, “first time in the Heliodor?” Byleth nodded. “Thought so. I can always tell a greenhorn when I see one.”

“I’m not green,” Byleth murmured. He wasn’t angry; it was just a fact. “I’ve hunted plenty of times, with my father. He’s the best around, besides maybe Leonie back home, and she learned from him same as me.”

“Hunting in your little backwater woods isn’t the same as hunting in the Heliodor,” and Byleth jumped as the blonde woman sat on his other side. “You think this is going to be easy? Just like hunting those spindly-legged creatures you call deer?” She laughed, a high, mocking titter that she hid behind her hand. “My, how amateur.”

“Constance has a point,” and Yuri nodded. “Being out here, especially alone– it’s an easy way to find a heaping load of trouble.”

“Of course I’m right,” drawled Constance. Then she turned to Byleth again, looking down her haughty nose at him. “So, what is it _you_ desire the Stag’s power for? Riches? Glory beyond measure?” She batted her eyes at him and giggled. “True love?”

“No…” Yuri shook his head, eyeing Byleth like a starving dog might on seeing his next meal. “Not this one. I bet it’s something selfless. Save your village from disaster? Dying family member, maybe?”

Byleth knew he was hard to read; he always had been, to the extent that even his own father could not tell what he was thinking most times. But when Yuri said that, something in his chest ached. He must have given himself away, for Yuri grinned. The firelight flickered off his teeth.

“Aah, I was right!” he sang. “So, which is it? Oh, I bet it’s a sister.”

“My– my mother, actually,” Byleth answered. The image of Sitri, his mother, his father’s wife, lying in bed as her body wasted away came unbidden. They must have seen it in his face, for both hunters shared a look that bordered on sympathetic.

“Oh dear,” said Constance. “How dreadful.”

“What’d I say? Noble, this one. Regular bleeding heart.” Byleth wasn’t sure if Yuri was mocking him or being sincere. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Byleth. Byleth Eisner.”

“Then let me give you some advice, Byleth Eisner,” said Yuri, and this time when he leaned in, he wrapped his arm around Byleth’s shoulders. For a fleeting moment, just long enough to make Byleth’s heart race in sudden fear, he thought Yuri might tear into his throat with those too-white teeth. “You’re all alone out here, little hunter. Better watch your back. Noble will get you killed, and there’s far more than fairy dust lurking in the trees.”

Yuri patted Byleth on the shoulder and stood, his lavender eyes laughing as he turned away. Constance had already disappeared, though Byleth hadn't seen her leave. “Anyway, good luck tomorrow,” he said, waving over his shoulder. “May the best hunter win.”

Byleth watched them leave in thoughtful, guarded silence, and when he was sure they were gone for good, he dumped the last of his stew on the fire and readied himself for bed. The stew was no longer appetizing and he suddenly wasn’t hungry, anyway.

As he crawled into his bedroom, Byleth considered his plan for the morrow. He would have to be on his guard; he’d been naïve to think that the only dangers of this expedition would come from the forest.

It took a long while for Byleth to fall asleep. When he did, he dreamt of blood; of jaws that ripped through skin and sinew, and of howls echoing off the trees, too near to be a warning.

\---

When Byleth awoke, his eyes opened to nothing but hazy grey above him. Fog, he realized, as his mind caught up with reality. Confusion gave way to relief, and with a sigh Byleth scrubbed at his eyes and pushed himself up from his bedroll. He could barely see the rest of camp; the fog was thick enough to obscure the nearest trees into mere shadows. It was as if the forest had called down the clouds just to spite them. And maybe it had; he’d heard the stories of this place.

The air was cool and damp against his skin as he dressed and readied himself for the day ahead. Most of the camp was already packed up, and Byleth cursed himself and his nightmares for the late start. Felix (that was his name!) and his companion were already gone, as was the party from the southern kingdom. But the wolves were still there, laughing softly over their cookfire and shooting the other hunters weighing glances. 

Trying to remember last night’s conversation was like recalling a dream; it was there, in bits and pieces, but he couldn’t fit them together or fill the blank spaces of memory. He knew it hadn’t been a _pleasant_ conversation, but the details were as clear as the fog around him. Something about it felt like a warning, but that could just as well be his own unease.

Yuri looked up and caught his eye, and Byleth’s breath caught. Yet the man only nodded to him before returning to his breakfast, and the tether between them snapped. He couldn’t be sure through the fog and the distance, but Byleth _thought_ the man had winked at him.

Already behind, Byleth couldn’t afford the time or the energy to cook a proper meal. So, he packed up his things as quickly as possible and set off into the forest alone, chewing a piece of dried meat as he went.

He could feel Yuri’s eyes still on him, long after the fog hid him from his sight.

_May the best hunter win._

\---

If the Forest Heliodor was a mystery on a clear, sunny day, it was haunting in the dimmed light. Every sound seemed muffled and amplified all at once, and on more than one occasion Byleth startled as small creatures darted away in the underbrush. Every noise tickled his ears like dark whispers, and though the air was still he could hear what sounded like the wind whistling through the trees. Despite being the peak of summer, his skin puckered into gooseflesh and his nose and fingertips were icy-numb.

Yet it was the feeling of being watched that did it.

Somehow, Yuri and his misfits had gotten into his head. No matter that he was alone, no matter that the forest was unmoving around him, Byleth felt eyes upon his every movement. It could have been the other hunters—that girl with the plum-colored braids, maybe, she seemed the silent-stealthy type—but he didn’t think so. It could also be nothing, but if there was anything his father had taught him, it was to trust his own instincts.

Something was out here, and it was watching him with keen attention.

Then he heard the first howl.

The sound was chilling, running up his arms and down his spine until every nerve was alight. There were wolves—real ones—in these woods. He should have known. Byleth drew his bow, loosened the dagger at his hip and advanced into the forest, more cautious than ever.

He had not gone half a mile when a shriek, human and terrified, echoed through the trees. Byleth nocked his bow, already running. Sprinting into the fog wasn’t the _best_ plan he’d ever had; the canopy was denser here, and the underbrush thickened as he drove further into the forest. Obstacles flew at him out of the haze: low-hanging branches, empty creek beds, fallen trunks that appeared from the aether to trip him.

He didn’t see the stream before he crashed headlong into it, smooth stones bruising his limbs as he tumbled into the icy water. Byleth spluttered as it crashed over him, cursing his carelessness. Another wolf howled from the fog, nearer now, daring him to come closer, and Byleth answered with clenched teeth as he pushed himself up, hissing at the broken skin on his palms as they rubbed against the gravel bed. Then he was off again, sopping wet and shivering and slightly favoring one ankle.

There was movement ahead—something large, its bulk snapping branches and brush, and it was headed straight for him. Byleth slowed, eyes searching the trees for the charging beast, and lifted his bow.

A blur of yellow and green erupted from the trees just ahead of him. Byleth had time enough to realize the blur was a person, and that said person was headed directly at him, before they collided. It knocked Byleth flat on his back; the impact forced the breath from his lungs, and for a moment, Byleth lay on the forest floor, gasping for breath as his vision blurred.

“Oh, sun and sky, I’ve killed him."

A face appeared above him—one so beautiful that Byleth did, in fact, think he’d died on impact. The man had brilliant green eyes; they were marked with worry now, but Byleth could see the beginnings of laugh lines at the corners, despite the man’s apparent youth. His skin was darker than Byleth’s, coppery and smooth, and his hair was dark brown and wavy. The curling ends hung low enough to just kiss his shoulders; as he frowned down at Byleth, it framed his face in a halo of soft waves.

“Hey, are you alright?” 

_Get up, Byleth. Stop staring. Breathe._

Somehow, Byleth managed to roll onto his side. All at once, his lungs started working again; with a gasp, life crashed back into him, and he coughed profusely as he pushed himself up.

“Oh, good, you’re _not_ dead,” chuckled the stranger. “Although we’ll both be, if we stay here much longer. C’mon, up you go.” 

The man offered Byleth a hand, which he took gladly. With a strength that belied his slender frame, he pulled Byleth to his feet, scrubbing his hand on his loose-fitting pants and trying to hide his grimace at the dirt and the blood. Byleth, still winded, doubled over to catch his breath.

“Come on,” the stranger urged, instead, “before they catch up—”

Byleth raised his head. “Who?”

Rustling answered from the brush behind them; Byleth turned toward it as the stranger dove behind him, face pale with fear. 

Four pairs of eyes stared back at them through the fog.

Wolves.

“Uh— _them._ ”

The wolves emerged from the underbrush one by one. They were all of them different: one black, one gold, one deep red-brown and one a silky lavender-grey. Something tickled his memory, something like but not quite deja vu, yet Byleth didn’t have time to ponder it; the wolves crept closer, snarling, hackles raised. 

Clearly intent on devouring them both.

“When I give the signal,” Byleth whispered, “I want you to run. Climb a tree, find somewhere to hide—anything. Can you do that?”

“Sure, but—”

“Now!”

Byleth surged forward, planting his feet and drawing his bow in one smooth motion; behind him, the stranger was already scrambling away.

He let his arrow fly as the first wolf leapt from the trees. It was the red, who lunged for his throat with a snarl. Instinct filled the space where conscious thought had fled, and Byleth rolled, coming up on one knee with another shot already fitted to the bow. His second shot missed, yet the wolves scattered before it. 

For a moment, Byleth thought it a victory; but the wolves were not frightened of his weapons, as he’d thought. They were flanking him—surrounding their prey before going in for the kill. 

The red barked a warning before lunging again. Byleth stood his ground, waiting til the last second to fire and dodge; as he leapt to the side, his arrow grazed the beast’s shoulder. It yelped and retreated, joining its fellows with a low, rumbling growl.

It was then that Byleth realized one of the wolves had hung back. The grey, the second-largest, stood farther back than the others, his posture less aggressive but far from passive. While the other wolves growled and circled, looking for an opening, this wolf simply appraised him with its bright, lavender eyes. 

Byleth met that gaze with a questioning look. Was it... _smiling_ at him?

The gold wolf began to howl.

It was a high, whining sound, wavering as it wound its way through the canopy and into the sky beyond. Byleth blinked, then rubbed his eyes. The fog had begun to _shimmer_. It convalesced around them, like ice on a lake in winter. Byleth could barely see through it before, but now that was impossible; he could still hear the beasts, but the sounds were all around him.

Byleth was in trouble. 

He drew his bow, closing his eyes and listening intently. If his eyes could not be trusted, then he’d lean on his other senses. 

It was the only thing that saved him.

Byleth turned toward his attacker as its shape lunged at him from the fog. It was the largest, the black wolf, and without thought Byleth let his arrow fly. The great beast batted his arrow away with an enormous paw and continued its charge undeterred. It landed heavy on his chest, knocking Byleth to the ground, all the while snarling and snapping. Thus pinned, Byleth could do no more than shield himself as he fought the beast. 

Pain, ragged and hot, cut through his torso; the wolf’s claws had found their way through his leather armor. Byleth hissed and shifted his grip on the beast, groping with his free hand for his weapons.

He had no idea where his bow was—snapped beneath the wolf’s weight, maybe— but if it wasn’t, it was nowhere it would be of any use. Byleth wriggled, reaching, stretching, grasping blindly until his fingertips met the hilt of his dagger. With a snarl of his own, Byleth jerked it from its sheath and slammed it home. The blow twisted the blade in his hand, but it stuck in the beast’s hide; with a howl, the wolf retreated, limping backward with Byleth’s dagger embedded in its shoulder.

Byleth rolled, pushing himself to his hands and knees. His limbs shook under his own weight; the pain made it hard to breathe, and his vision swam. Something in his head said something was _off,_ but he pushed the thought away and reached for his bow, lying unbroken on the forest floor.

He pushed himself to his feet, staggered, steadied himself again. Byleth reached for an arrow and found his quiver empty, which was just as well; he could barely stand, much less steady his weapon. 

The wolves watched him warily, sizing him up. They’d kill him in a moment, Byleth was sure; it was only a matter of time before they realized he was defenseless, and once they did it was over. 

Byleth slumped, bow falling from his fingers as his knees hit the cold earth. Strong hands caught him from behind, easing him to the forest floor, and Byleth looked up in surprise. Through the creeping shadow of his vision, he recognized the stranger. His face was calm, soft and smiling, glowing gold in the growing dark.

Why had he come back? Byleth wanted to protest, to tell him to run, but he could barely breathe. He leaned heavily against the man, fighting to stay conscious.

“Hey, stranger,” said the man, “it’s okay. It’s gonna be alright. I’ve got you.”

Byleth, sure they were both going to die, blacked out.

\---

“Ow! Hapi, knock it off!”

“If you don’t sit still, you’ll make it worse.”

“I am sitting still!” 

Voices. They were familiar, yet strange. Was he dreaming?

“Are you sure I can’t eat him?”

“Pretty sure that’s a yes.”

“But he stabbed me!”

“You also tried to tear out his throat.”

“Only a little! And only’s on Khalid’s—Ow ow _ow!_ ”

“Hush, you big baby.”

Byleth tried to open his eyes, but his lids were heavy. His _everything_ felt heavy, like the earth was pulling him down, down, down—but not like falling. He knew what falling was, and this wasn’t it.

He tried again, his eyelids fluttering. Slowly, as if floating up from the floor of the deepest waters, Byleth rose to consciousness.

The first thing he noticed was the light. All around him was warm gold; sunlight lit the room through large, open windows. It filled the space as if it was alive, melting into the nooks and crannies and turning dust motes to glittering jewels.

There were trinkets _everywhere_ ; shelf upon shelf lined the walls, covered in knick-knacks and old books and small animal bones. There were rolls of parchment, crystal bottles filled with dirt and spring water and who knew what else, scarves and hempen tapestries hanging overtop one another. And there were plants on every surface—the windowsill, atop stacks of poorly balanced books, hanging from the ceiling in woven baskets—anywhere there was space.

Where _was_ he?

“Ah, you’re awake.” 

Byleth blinked and before him stood the stranger from the wood. His appearance had not changed since the forest, but he looked different in this place; more alive, more _regal_ , aglow in the wash of the sunlight and safety of the hut. His clothes were odd—they reminded Byleth of the Almyran merchants he had seen on trips into the city, but the style was not quite the same. Truthfully, though, he had not seen many Almyrans in his lifetime, so he could be mistaken entirely. There was a richness to them, from the thread-of-gold embroidery to the small medallions hanging from the fringe of the scarf around his hips, from the deep vibrancy of the dyes to the fine weave of the linens, all made him seem more real, more _alive_ than any person had a right to be. 

The world dulled in comparison to him, and no recollection nor experience could match it.

Byleth’s memory called to him then, words half-remembered in his waking state. A swift glance around the room confirmed they were alone; there was no evidence of any other presence, but those voices had sounded so near, so familiar…

“How are you feeling?”

The young man settled on the bed, propping his chin up on his fist and leaning heavily on his cocked knee.

“I’m…” Byleth paused. Other than a feeling of great drowsiness, he felt _fine._ There was no lingering pain, no stiffness to his limbs, no aches or bruises that he could sense. “Alright, I think,” he answered, more to himself than to answer the question. “Where am I?”

“This is my place,” answered the man. “I guess you could call it home.”

“Are we still in the forest?” He nodded. “And the wolves?”

The stranger grinned, white teeth sparkling. “Frightened away by your heroic constitution.” Byleth stared at him, and the man shrugged. “They ran off after you stabbed the big one, so I figured they’d had enough. I dragged you back here after.” The man nudged Byleth’s knee through the blanket. “You, my friend, are not light.”

“Sorry.” He said it without thinking, but the man laughed. 

“I forgive you. You did save my life, after all. Figure we’re even now.”

The stranger stood up, picking his way around the clutter on the floor and picking up a fluted watering pitcher. He started at the bookshelf, examining each plant and prodding gently at the leaves before giving each a little drink.

Byleth watched for a few moments before pushing himself upright. The movement was slow, as if he were underwater, but other than the resistance nothing seemed wrong. It was then that he realized he was shirtless; his gear lay draped over a chair next to the bed, placed with an untidy sort of care that spoke of the stranger’s touch. His side, where he was sure the wolf had mauled him, was unmarred. It was not even red, as if freshly healed, but instead looked as if nothing had happened at all. His bare arms were unblemished, his face and hands unscratched. 

He looked up at the man, uncertain. “Did you… did you heal me?”

The stranger didn’t answer. Instead, he paused at the window, head tilted in thought. Then he looked up, his reflected gaze meeting Byleth’s. “You know, we haven’t been properly introduced,” as if it had just occurred to him. He resumed tending his plants, his back to his guest. “You have a name?”

“It’s Byleth.”

“ _Byleth?_ Huh. Never heard that one before.” He set his pitcher on a stack of precariously balanced dishes and turned. “Well, Byleth, you can call me Khalid. It’s _very_ nice to meet you.”

The way Khalid said _very nice_ was, well, very nice. Everything about him was nice: the way he moved, graceful and sure, the way his green eyes caught the golden light, the way his voice spoke of ancient wisdom and deep mischief. Byleth found himself staring, flushed under Khalid’s attention.

Khalid’s eyes widened a fraction, his gaze dropping to Byleth’s chest and bouncing back so quickly that Byleth nearly missed it. Byleth glanced down and yelped; the red did not stop at his collar. Khalid laughed as Byleth reached for his shirt, pulling it over his head so quickly he nearly got stuck in one of the sleeves. 

“You are a curious one, Byleth, that’s for sure.” The crinkles at the corners of his eyes made Byleth warm all over. Amusement was a good look for him, even if it made Byleth nervous. “What are you doing in the Heliodor, anyway?”

 _The stag._

“I’m sorry, but I have to go!” Byleth had already thrown back the covers and slung one leg over the edge of the bed when Khalid stopped him, one hand on his shoulder pushing him back into bed. 

“Whoa, whoa, easy! What’s the rush?”

“It’s my mother,” said Byleth. He fought to sit up again, but Khalid’s gentle insistence was enough to keep him down. “If I don’t find the stag, she’ll die. I have to go, I can’t let them—”

“Your mother.” Khalid paused, his face looming over Byleth but his gaze elsewhere. “Ah. I see. So it’s like that.”

“Please.” Byleth was feeling sleepy again, the heaviness returning in full force. He didn’t have time to sleep; he needed to leave. He needed to rejoin the hunt. “Please, let me go. I have to find it. I can’t- I can’t lose her.”

“Easy, friend.” Khalid was back in the present; he smiled at Byleth, green-gold gaze soft and reassuring. “You won’t. I promise.”

“But- but I—”

“Shh. Sleep.”

Byleth’s eyes closed of their own accord; his body relaxed into the mattress, and every conscious thought went hazy, then hushed. He felt Khalid lean closer, brushing his hair back. Then his warm lips met Byleth’s skin.

“Everything is going to be alright.”

And Byleth slept.

\---

When he woke, the light was blue, the pillow rough against his cheek, bed firm to the point of being hard. Byleth pushed himself up with a groan, head in his hands. His skull felt overfull, his back and body stiff, and he was incredibly thirsty.

Home. He was… he was home.

Byleth shook his head. That didn’t make sense. He remembered… He remembered… 

What _did_ he remember?

“Byleth?”

His heart skipped a beat. “Mother?”

Sitri Eisner appeared in his bedroom doorway a moment later. She smiled when she saw him, rushing into the room and throwing herself onto the bed to hug him. “Oh, Byleth, you’re awake!”

“You- but- Mother, you shouldn’t be out of bed!” Byleth pushed her away, eyes searching her face. The dark circles were gone, her hollow cheeks were full and rosy, her eyes shone. “What? Are you—”

Sitri laughed. “I’m well, my love. Perfectly well. It was the strangest thing…” His mother paused. “But you’ve been asleep for nearly a week, dear. I thought you’d done something awful, when you showed up on our door in that state, but…” 

Byleth leaned toward her. “What do you mean, you’re well?”

“Just what I said. I woke up the day after you returned and I felt… fine. More than fine. My fever is gone, I’ve energy again, and now you’ve come back to me—oh, Byleth, it’s truly a miracle!” She hugged him again, pressing kisses into his hair. “Your friends brought you back. ‘Just sleeping,’ they said, and then left you here, quick as you please! I’ve not seen one of them since.”

“Friends.” Byleth didn’t have any friends, besides Leonie, and none of the hunters had made any attempt to know him. None of them, except… “Mother, what did these friends look like?”

“Byleth.” Jeralt, his father, stooped through the low door, frowning deeply and scratching at his beard. “Glad you’re up. There’s a… man, here, to see you.”

“A man?”

Byleth’s heart lurched, and he threw himself out of bed and squeezed past his father, sprinting barefoot down the stairs and out into the garden. _Garden_ was being generous; it was mostly mud, the places where grass refused to grow soft and slushy underfoot after the recent rains. He had never been good at caring for green things, and neither was his father; thus his mother’s plants had wilted outside as she had within, and now there was little more left than their skeletal remains.

There at the gate stood Khalid, glory diminished but still looking far too regal for the hovel the Eisners called home. He almost looked nervous, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger, but his grin lit his face when he saw Byleth burst through the door. 

Byleth stopped, hesitant. He could feel his parents’ eyes on him from within, but Khalid held his attention. Should he invite him in? Should he offer him a drink?

“What are you doing here?”

With a laugh and tilt of his head, Khalid spread his arms wide. 

“Well,” he said, “you caught me.”


End file.
